


Wicked game

by Wrathofscribbles



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 08:40:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17804741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathofscribbles/pseuds/Wrathofscribbles
Summary: Letting someone under his skinmightnot have been one of his more spectacular ideas.But since it's Chloe, he doesn't mind too much.





	Wicked game

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer that I don't own Lucifer or any of the show's characters and content.** I just like to play in the devil's sandbox.
> 
> A little random while I try to iron out other WIPs.

He likes his mattress soft, to cushion muscles overworked and weary from mad-dash scrambling and diving for cover and fighting dirty with humans when the detective is nearby, but not _too_ soft.  There needs to be something firm, some _resistance_ to wipe away the lingering echoes of _falling_ , pricking at memories he’d rather leave buried six feet under.

He likes his sheets of satin and silk.  Cool, _slippery_ , not at all like the flash fires of hell, the cruel bite of jagged chains round neck and wrists and ankles, the bruise of rock grinding deep into flesh and slaking its thirst with the blood of the damned, their screams ringing out like church bells in the night.

He likes his penthouse and its wide open spaces, its distinct lack of _closed doors_.  Room to prowl and sprawl and spy every nook and cranny with his head on a swivel, ever aware of his domain and the smallest shift in its norm, danger a clarion call the moment the breeze _shifts_  or the elevator pings.

Lucifer has his creature comforts, his needs, his _desires_ , tucked close to his chest where no-one can see, hidden under ribald jokes and gleaming smiles and wandering eyes for days.  No-one can know of the chinks in his armour, the gaps his wings cannot cover, the vulnerable core housed in the devil’s shell.   _No-one can know_.

Except, perhaps, for the woman by his side, head stuck partway under the pillow doing absolutely _nothing_  to quiet her snoring.  She takes his defenses in hand and tears them all down with a single smile, reminds him what tenderness means in the sweep of her fingers over skin both unmarred and burnt.  She looks at him without fear when he’s divine and human and damned, stretches up on her toes to kiss him without hesitation no matter the face staring back at her.  She makes a mean waffle in the morning and threatens him with a spatula until he sits his pretty ass down and polishes off the entire plate.  She spies the sock content of his underwear drawer and declares him, somewhat scandalised, a boring old fart, and takes it upon herself to replace half of it with an explosion of patterned colour he'll never admit to liking.  And a half dozen _fuzzy_  pairs to slide around his home in - something she does with an _ease_ he finds highly suspicious.  She plumps up his pillows and reorders his cushions and chucks one at his head when she discovers the stash of Disney movies he’s been accumulating since inspecting the spawn’s collection.

There is no hiding from Chloe now she knows the truth.  He cannot deny her honesty on principle but _even so_... he _will not_ deny her the honesty he prides himself on.  No matter the question, situation, or verbal altercation.  So why deny her _himself_ , when it is he she chooses as partner?

A daunting prospect for certain, letting her tuck herself under all his protections and stretch herself along the bare bones of him, see him for all the imperfections cast upon him.  But it's _Chloe_ , and her version of perfect is the lack of it.

She stirs beside him, pillow thrown from the bed at speed as she flails her arms about and tugs uselessly at the wild nest her hair's become, bleary eyes fixing on him with an adorable scowl.  Soft around the edges, just like her heart.

"You think too loudly, Lucifer."

"Pardon?"

"You think too loudly," she says again, one clumsy fingertip thunking him solidly on the forehead and it's a difficult thing indeed, to keep his eyes on her face rather than cross them in a futile effort to spy her finger's movement over the frown lines etched into his skin, "all those cogs turning.  Woke me up."

"Are you sure it wasn't your snoring?"

"I do _not_ snore!"

"Oh yes, you do."

"Do not!"

"Do too," he purrs, charmed by the indignant flare of colour in her cheeks as she rises amidst his sheets like a dragon shaking itself from slumber to survey its treasure trove and eat the foolish knight come to slay her.

He realises too late that his wings are still halfway corporeal, catches the mischief flirting about her smile too late as she lunges quick as a striking snake.  Her fingers skate over ghostly feathers, warm and tingling and _odd_ -

And Lucifer Morningstar bloody well does _not_ yelp as the sensation skitters all the way to his spine and rockets up and down his nerves.  He does _not_ squirm under her teasing ways like a hooked fish.  He does _not_ gasp for breath between bouts of laughter and beg for mercy.

He doesn't... unless he's around Chloe.

The little witch knows it, too.

**Author's Note:**

> My fics can also be [found here](https://scribblesdg.tumblr.com).
> 
> And if you just want to ~~scream~~ chat about Lucifer, you can find me on my [main blog](https://wrathoscribbles.tumblr.com) as well. I don't bite, I promise.


End file.
